Something Like Home
by arineat
Summary: Arthur's never really had a place he can call home. Then he met Eames.


There have been very few moments of true happiness in Arthur's life. His childhood had been nothing but a long, winding trail across the continental US, courtesy of his mother's inability to lay down roots. Just as Arthur would get used to a place and the people who lived there, she would uproot them, insisting that the next big adventure was around the corner. It wasn't ideal - far from it – but Arthur went along dutifully, packing his life into broken-down old boxes yet again. There were times he fancied the only thing holding him together were the torn strands of cheap, brown packing tape he used to seal them.

It wasn't that his childhood had been some horrible drama; they'd had their good times. Arthur's mother had loved him, though she would often forget that love alone wasn't enough to feed them. He'd been working odd jobs since he was fourteen. He'd been stealing for even longer. It was a life filled with uncertainties and chaos. New places, new people, new worries; would they have enough for rent this month, could they afford to keep this utility or that, would their car keep going just another mile?

Arthur's childhood was one of the main reasons he was so rigid, so controlled, despite the need that had been so deeply ingrained in him to_move, go, get out_ whenever he'd overstayed his contentment of a place. His life wasn't much different as an adult, except that now, Arthur had control. He decided when and where and for how long. Everything was meticulously planned and organised and if he ever had to make a quick get away, well, he'd graduated from worn boxes and rotten tape to several scattered, but organised, hide-aways filled with various pieces of his life.

Happiness had always been a secondary thing for Arthur. So long as he'd had food, a roof over his head and the next step planned out, he hadn't much cared if there were smiles and laughter. It wasn't something he'd even realised he was missing until he'd met Dominic and Malorie Cobb. They hadn't hesitated in welcoming Arthur into their world. For the first time in his life, Arthur had had friends he could count on. Oh, sure, he'd made contacts from a young age; networked until his Moleskine was filled-to-bursting with informants and people willing to grant him a favour or two, but not friends.

Over the years, Dom and Mal had given him something he'd never had before; consistency. Where before he would have barely observed holidays, often spending them buried in paper work or in front of the television with an expensive bottle of wine, he began celebrating them in California with the Cobbs. Birthdays became more than just another day of growing older. When he was sick, Mal nursed him. When he needed advice, Cobb was always there to give it. When he was lonely, they cheered him. They became his family.

The day they told him Mal was pregnant was the first day Arthur can clearly remember being distinctly happy. The next was when he first held Phillipa in his arms. Despite his extensive travels and all the wonders he'd been privy to, his goddaughter had been, without a doubt, the most beautiful and amazing thing he'd ever seen. James followed a couple years after and for the first time in a long time, Arthur found that his schedule wasn't determined by himself. Instead, he planned his days, weeks and months based on holidays, birthdays and dance recitals; whenever he could manage to make it to that rambling house in California and snatch those rare, but precious moments of happiness, he would. Oddly enough, he didn't mind. He lived for Mal's warm smiles, Cobb's brotherly hugs, Phillipa's sticky kisses and James' penchant for drooling on Arthur's best suits.

Then everything changed.

Mal died.

Dom fell apart.

They ran.

Arthur still had Cobb - he was a broken, half-crazed shell of the man he'd known, but he was still Cobb. Tragedy had taken both their happiness and it had been up to Arthur to gather the pieces of what was left and try his best to put them back together. So he'd done what he did best; pushed aside his grief and loss, grabbed the reins of his control and returned to his life of organised chaos with his friend in tow.

It had been harder than he'd expected. It seemed Arthur had grown too used to having joy in the past few years. Once it was gone, it'd left a gaping hole that ached anytime he let his guard down enough to think about it. Before, he'd barely noticed the lack, but now? Now that he'd seen and felt just how wonderful life could be? It was twice as hard to go back to living without it. But Arthur soldiered on. He filled his days utilizing his many contacts to get them jobs. His nights were filled with paperwork, research, and making sure Dom didn't drown in the scotch he seemed to think would heal his heart.

They worked, fought, got shot at on a daily basis, but it was all under Arthur's control. He made sure they survived. A few months on the run and he'd worked out a system; find a lead, research, plan, work until he collapsed and repeat. His schedule helped him bury his pain; helped him forget his need to be happy. Somnacin helped keep away the dreams.

It was efficient.

It worked.

Until inception.

Until Eames came back into his life.

Arthur had worked with Eames only twice before; on the first job, he'd driven him mad, on the second, he'd driven him into his bed. They'd spent the weeks of preparations taunting, fighting and fucking one another and the second the job had been completed, Eames had disappeared with a smirk. It shouldn't have mattered - after all, Arthur was used to things changing on a dime - but for some reason, he'd actually missed the bastard.

It wasn't that Eames was a fantastic fuck - though Arthur would grudgingly admit he had been one of the best he'd ever encountered - but more how Eames had touched him. The way he'd seemed to be the only one able to see through Arthur's veneer of cool, calm composure and see just how fucked up he was inside. How he'd known exactly which buttons to push, which cracks to prod at until the entire facade had crumbled.

How he'd known exactly how to take Arthur apart bit-by-bit and rebuild him into something new; something better, if only for the night.

On the rare occasion Arthur had allowed himself to think of it, he'd reluctantly admitted that Eames - with all his taunting, irritating ways - had somehow managed to make him happy, if only for those few weeks. Acknowledging that had only made the sudden loss of it sting that much more, so he'd opted to bury it deep and ignore it. Sure, he'd casually kept up with Eames' whereabouts, so that if and when the time came, they could contact him, but he hadn't dwelt on it. At least not until Dom had insisted that they'd needed more than a thief; they'd needed a forger. Suddenly Arthur's buried memories made a vicious comeback and he'd found himself wanting more than he was sure Eames would ever give. He'd sworn to himself there and then that he'd keep things professional; that Eames wouldn't get the best of him again.

It had been easy enough to resist his urges and ignore Eames' not-so-subtle flirtations during the planning stages; inception was extremely dangerous business and Arthur'd known if they were to have any success, he'd have to stay focused. It wasn't until they were in the dream, trapped with the threat of limbo hanging over their heads that Arthur felt his resolve weaken.

_"Security is going to run you down hard."_

_"And I will lead them on a merry chase."_

_"Just be back before the kick."_

_"Go to sleep, Mister Eames."_

It was with disbelief and cautious triumph that the crew had disembarked from the plane. They'd pulled it off. There had been a moment of tension as Arthur watched Dom step up to the immigration control desk and then he was through. It was over.

Arthur had fully expected Eames to disappear from customs as swiftly as he had their hotel room all those years ago, but when he'd turned from the desk, Eames hadn't run, but instead, stood there with a cautious, but inviting grin.

_"Where to next, darling?"_

When they worked the job in Reno, Arthur had ignored Eames' hints. In Montreal, he'd merely arched a brow when Eames had suggested they_"continue their research somewhere more comfortable"_. He'd flat out refused him in Paris.

It wasn't until London that Arthur gave in.

There have been very few moments of true happiness in Arthur's life, but now, lying naked with Eames in a run-down flat in the heart London, windows open and the soft, rhythmic sound of rain beating against the roof as it washes away the dirt and grime of the city, he knows this is one of them. If the look on Eames' face is anything to go by, it's one of many to come.


End file.
